exhibition of rope

A length of rope.

It’s amazing what you can do with it.

“An exhibition, only.” I say, holding the rope in one hand.

I don’t think you believe me, but you offer your wrists; I draw them behind your back.

“It’s simple.” Once, twice, around each of your wrists individually and then again around both. Between them, create a loop, and…there. Nice and snug.

“Rope has many uses. It can be used to restrain.” And then it hits you – you’re bound. Just your wrists, but it’s enough to make you realize you can’t stop what follows. That with your wrists behind your back, you have little choice but to step back when I close the space between us.

One step, two – and you find yourself trapped between the study door. And me.

No hesitation, no pause, just my hands on your hips, under your shirt. You don’t move as my hands slide up your back, fingers pressed to your bare spine. Pressure, fingers moving in with practiced – but not perfected – technique. It takes a moment before you realize what I’ve done and by then it’s too late. Hands move to the front, drawing your bra off, and then out from under your shirt.

And now you decide to move, stepping away from the wall, wrists twisting against the rope, testing its strength.

But the rope holds. And your step forward only presses you against my knee, which had risen slightly to nestle against the apex of your thighs. I meet your eyes and wordlessly grip the bottom of your shirt, drawing it up over your breasts. My eyes flicker down, taking you in – and then my head follows my gaze.

Warm breath tickling the top of your breasts, followed by the heat of lips against the curve of your breasts. There is deliberation, time taken to feel their weight.

Lips part. Teeth graze a nipple. I can feel it harden against my tongue and I draw it in, testing how much pressure you can handle in the way your back arches. There is a low hum of need now, felt under my hands as they reach around your waist to grip your bound wrists.

When I finally draw back, meeting your eyes again, there is no disguising the hunger in my gaze.

I take a deep, slow breath, then another, to steady myself.

I untie your wrists.

Draw your shirt over your head.

And then rebind your wrists in front of you.

This is done quickly and with purpose, giving you little time to think, to object.

I grip the end of the rope that binds you. It only took a couple feet to capture your wrists. There is plenty left and I tug you forward, drawing you away from the wall. “Rope can also be used to direct.”

To direct. And to claim. I collect the slack in the rope, forcing you forward one step at a time. Until you are facing the edge of my desk.

There are certain things I know. About you. And I knew that if I give you time to think, you’ll have something smart to say.

Instead, I take the end of the rope and draw it over the desk, near the center, keeping it loose until I can bring it all the way around. A twist, a tie, and…yes. Now I can tighten it.

I glance over at you – wrists bound, rope leading to the desk. I pull, tightening the rope. Your thighs hit the edge of your desk, your bare chest pressing into the cool surface and your wrists over your head.

With the rope now taut, I tie it off under the desk and then step out of sight. Behind you.

This is what means to be truly bound. You test the rope again, twisting. There is some small give to it but not enough for freedom.

Hands slip around to the front of your jeans unsnapping – and then fingers hook and tug, catching your panties on the way down.

You can feel the heat of my hands on your skin.

It is just…too tempting. And you are too caught.

Hands guide you to lean up against the desk, drawing your hips back – a move that presses your ass outward, making of it a tempting target.

First, a light tease – fingers caressing the curve of each cheek, taking time to enjoy the simple lines, and just as you begin to relax, a *slap* as hand meets skin. Awakening nerve endings, reminding you of just how exposed you are. Moments pass and then another, on the other cheek, bringing the prettiest flush of red to the surface.

It is the intake of breath, the rhythm of slapping, the discordance of hands on naked skin that pulls you in. The hand becomes more than just an instrument leaving red patterns across your cheeks, it becomes a burning brand.

For a moment there is a calm, a moment of silence while your skin, sensitive to everything, is left alone. Then the gentle touch of fingers – almost surprising, as they trace lightly over your skin. One finger starts at the small of your back, tracing a line slowly along the edge between your cheeks, dipping inward. It reaches the apex of your thighs – and doesn’t

There is a light slow brush of two fingers against you, teasing outer lips as they slip to the hard throbbing nub a bit further up. Agonizing in its deliberate slowness, in the obvious pleasure in holding you there – and then the calm is over, for even as those fingers part to run along either side of your clit, the other hand awakens your ass again to the pleasures of skin meeting skin with an impact sharp enough to make you cry out.

But that’s not enough.

I need.

My left hand buries itself in the back of your hair and I drag you back until you feel me, hard, throbbing, and pressed against the curve of your ass.

autumn wisdom [wolf and owl]

It was autumn, and Wolf had his head buried in leaves, searching for signs of rabbits of any size. Without luck.

Shaking orange-red leaves from his head, Wolf said, “I do not wish to get old. I would not trade my freedom for experience.”

Owl, who was snacking on a rabbit that was small in size (but still larger than the rabbit Wolf was snacking on, which was of no size at all), replied, “What do you mean?”

“The young are free to think what they want. Because they do not know any better.” Wolf scratched his ear and thought of how best to explain. Finally, he said, “When I was an even younger wolf and with a larger pack, I had to fight for my place. One day, a particularly cunning and well-scarred older wolf sought to teach me a lesson in manners. I was faster and more enthusiastic – but he had fought many battles. I earned a few scars of my own that afternoon.”

Finishing his rabbit-sized snack, Owl asked with great patience, “And?”

Attacking another itch, Wolf, continued his story, “And after a few tussles, it became clear that while experience had taught the older wolf what worked and what didn’t, it also meant he was less likely to try something unexpected. He relied on what he knew. Whereas I, being young and fearless, was quite reckless and would try just about anything to win.”

“And did you win, Wolf?” Owl asked.

With his best wolf smile, Wolf said, “Let us just say that it _is_ possible to teach an old wolf new tricks. Provided the lesson is painful enough.”

the better to taste you with [wolf and owl]

While talking in the woods one day, Owl and Wolf came across a small, slightly-dead, mouse. The wolf, hungry, immediately pounced upon it and promptly caught his snout in a painful trap.

Whining, Wolf rolled onto his back, wiggling back and forth. He pressed his paws to the vise that kept his jaws closed, kicking and silently snarling, to no avail.

Owl watched with great amusement and just a hint of concern.

While twisting and rolling upon the ground, Wolf managed to catch the jaw on a small sharp stump. Using the stump, Wolf finally managed to pry the trap off. After a moment of exhausted panting, Wolf said, “I have learned an important lesson today.”

“To be wary of that which comes too easily?” asked the Owl.

Wolf pounced upon the unmoving mouse, swallowing it whole. “No,” said the Wolf, teeth bared in a friendly-like, and most satisfied, smile, “I have learned that meals taste even better after a bit of exercise.”

nature [wolf and owl]

“It is a good thing we are both predators,” said the Wolf, “Or we’d be going hungry this winter.”

Owl landed on a branch nearby. “I am a predator, that is true.” Owl raised a wing, checking it carefully, “But isn’t it the nature of my food that will help me in the coming cold months.”

Wolf laid himself at the foot of the tree Owl rested in. He yawned. “Isn’t it though? Predators are spoiled for choice in their food.”

Beak to wing, Owl began to clean himself, but not before offering these words, “If your choice of food doesn’t survive far into winter, neither will you. I’d be careful in relying too much on your sharp teeth and claws and spend a bit more time thinking about what you will snack on if all the burrows come up empty.”

Baring his teeth in a friendly-like smile, Wolf settled his head upon his paws and dreamt of chasing rabbits.

arms wide, eyes shut

“Why is it so fleeting?” she asked from the edge.

I shrugged, but her back was to me, so I said, “We’re not meant to be trapped in happiness.” Head resting against rough bark, I closed my left eye, watching her through the right.

Her bare toes curled into the sand of the cliff, dipping under gnarled fingers of roots. “Trapped? What a sinister way to describe happiness.” She looked over her bare shoulder, “Pain isn’t fleeting. Are we meant to be trapped in pain?”

I switched eyes. The left eye caught the shimmer of the ocean past her silhouette. “Sharp pain is fleeting. It’s the dull pain that sticks around, and we endure. We’re adaptable creatures, us humans.” I plucked at the green poking through the grains of sand, now watching her with both eyes open.

“Well.” She pirouetted. “I think I am going to fall.” then, “I’m scared. I know the fall will be exhilarating, but eventually I’m going to reach bottom.” Hands thrown out, hair caught by the ocean breeze, she added, “And that’s going to hurt.”

I stood, pushing off from the tree, “Of course it’ll hurt.”

A grin, a step back, arms wavering for balance, and her words, “You won’t stop me?”

“You never stopped me.” Over her shoulder, I could see the ocean, “Besides, it’s not the possible pain that makes the fall so frightening.” I smiled and met her eyes as she leaned into the breeze, “It’s not knowing how far you have to go.”

evenly spaced stationary targets

Her bare feet rested atop the dashboard and she caught me glancing at her legs. She flashed a smile, and said, “So where are we going?”

“There’s a novelty museum up ahead. Pet rocks, pink flamingos, Mexican bouncing beans. Little robots that make tea.” I said.

She laughed, “There are not!”

“And a bit further beyond there is an old motel with those vibrating beds that cost a nickel to activate.”

She glanced at the car’s empty ashtray filled with coins, “Do we even have nickels?”

It was a good question. I grinned, shrugged, and focused on the road, which was lined with evenly spaced palm trees. Although there were no cars ahead of us, the trees brought the three-second rule to mind: pick a fixed object in the road; once the car in front of you passes it, count to three slowly. If you pass the fixed object before reaching three, you are following too close.

The rule is meant to keep you at a safe distance. To avoid collisions.

Abruptly, the neatly spaced palm trees on the left were broken up by a gas station sign. I glanced at the gas gauge – it was edging perilously close to the E. I pulled into the station and up to one of the pumps.

“Why don’t you grab us some snacks?” I asked, opening my door. She followed suit, hopping out of the car. She paused just long enough to look back at me with another smile before disappearing inside the station.

I studied the gas pump. Just how far could we go without any more gas? We certainly wouldn’t collide with anything if we weren’t moving.

Could we?

I counted to three slowly, replaced the gas hose without using it, and followed her inside.

the Beauty and the Best – The Hunger

An excerpt of a story I worked on last year; this scene takes place about half-way through the story.

At dinner, Rose has refused the Beast's request to be his for the third time; in terror of reprisal, Rose fled back to her room.

In the rising tide of his hunger, Lord Beast’s growl was low and constant and it sent all of the servants standing in front of Rose’s door fleeing down the passageway; all but one, that is, for a lone boy, a young stable hand, remained shaking in front of the oak door that marked the entrance to Rose’s room.

Lord Beast reached back to knock the boy aside, the massive knot of muscles along his right arm tensing under a dark coat of his fur, but he read the terror in the boy's eyes and hesitated, a slender thread of humanity winding a path through the dark cloud of red. "Boy," came the growl through the Beast's clenched teeth, "Move or die."

"No M'lord…you c-cannot, not like this," said the boy, his terror driving his voice an octave higher as he cringed against the door. 

"You will move." said the Beast, "You will move, or you will die."

The boy quavered, tears leaking from his frightened blue eyes, but his trembling ten year old frame did not move; it was entirely possible that, in his fear, moving was a feat he was no longer capable of. "Y-you mustn't, M'lord, you mustn't."

The last of Lord Beast's patience vanished, "She will live. Beyond that," Beast said, plucking the boy up by the back of his dirty shirt and tossing him, not ungently, to the side, "I give no promises."

Resting a large hand on the oak door, Lord Beast pushed it open. Rose was sitting on the edge of her bed, face obscured by her long midnight hair; at the sight of her, the Beast's hunger erased all remaining thoughts of mercy; a coil made of the tightly fused threads of anger and desire twisted through him as he crossed the space to her bed in a haze of crimson.

For a long minute, Lord Beast stood towering over her diminutive form in silence.

Rose did not look up.


There was no answer.



"ROSE!" His roar shook the very bed she sat upon, and yet she still did not move. Hand trembling in anger, Beast placed a single finger under her chin and tilted it up. There were tears in her eyes, rivers of fear that dripped over her chin and into her lap where her hands were clasped tightly.

Her eyes, shiny and bright with trepidation, met his.

"What makes you think you have a choice?" he asked.

Beast watched her skin pale, only to flush red a moment later. She lowered her eyes, and his large hand went to her cheek, tracing the rosy glow.

"I don't." She spoke reluctantly, unsure.

“No,” the Beast said, “You don’t.”

Mr. Desmond Tells His First Story

“Why?” I could barely get the word out. But having said it, the rest tumbled out on its own, “Why do this?”

He contemplated me, comfortable in the plastic courtyard chair as he was comfortable in his suit or his smile. “I met Mrs. Lovell today.” 

Mr. Desmond's First Story:

She was arriving home from grocery shopping. I met her at the door. “Miss Lovell, we have not met yet, but I am a great fan.” 

With an arm clutching the groceries, she turned the key and opened the door, “My husband isn’t home, you’ll need to come back after six if you wish to speak to him about his book,” Believing this ended the conversation, she reached for the handle to draw the door closed. 

“But I am not a fan of your husband, Mrs. Josephine.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“For you.” 

 “Are you sure that is what you want?” My fingers tightened around her neck, cradling her throat in a grip that held her in place. 

“yes…yes…yes.” Each word a gasped whisper, a silent plea. I finally took mercy on her  and slid my grip along her neck to the back, burying fingers in hair. Tugging her head back, her gaze was forced upwards. I leaned over, lips barely finding her own, the feather kiss of a wish that moves from lips to chin, to neck like a trail of tears across naked skin. 

Leaning over her kneeling body, my teeth find the heat of her pulse and I am forced to stop, to taste this spot, teeth grazing across sensitive skin. Its more instinct then knowledge now, fingers tight against the back of her hair and teeth biting in, leaving marks that won’t soon fade, and a gasp of pain and pleasure that rings in my ears like burning need.


“What makes you think any of those women are real? Maybe I just made up their names that day.” Mr. Desmond asked.

I shook my head, “No, they must be real. Otherwise you were simply making those stories up so that I would…” I fell silent and looked down at my hands.

Meeting Mr. Desmond

An old story, written from a different perspective.


When people discuss the approach of dusk, it is often described in one of two days: the gradual shading in of evening, the passing of a day in a fashion that is imperceptible even while you are watching it – or, the dramatic change from light to day much like pulling a slate of sheet rock across the sky.

The darkness that fell on the small town of Jacobs was neither of these. Darkness came down like rain, a cessation of light in hazy scratches drawn across the sky, in some places pooling into tiny black lakes, and in other running in thin lines down the street like run-off from a painter’s brush. 

My name is Josephine.

The first time I saw Mr. Desmond, I thought it accidental.

I was holding a rose between my fingers. Its soft petals of bright red had an almost hypnotizing affect on me. The mid-afternoon breeze caused the petals to rustle and I teased them lightly with my fingertips; they felt like satin against my skin, a sweet sensation followed by a rather unexpected pain as my fingers drifted too low and caught on a sharp thorn.

Startled, I let the rose slip my fingers.

While bending over to retrieve it, I caught a glimpse, just at the edge of my vision, of a man in dark green and black. Something about him caught my interest. It wasn't his face, which most often catches my attention, nor his eyes, which are one of my great weaknesses. No, it was something in the way he held himself, a solidity of confidence as he crossed the street opposite the flower stand I stood beside. I turned towards the street to get a better look, but the swelling lunch crowd swept away all trace of him. Or … almost all trace; there was an indelible path woven through the milling people, as if people were shifting in some Jungian way around a single person.

Curious, I followed him into the crowd.

My next glimpse of him was more deliberate. He had paused at a street corner to light a cigarette. The silver of his lighter flashed in the evening sun, and the way in which he took that first drag – as if his entire focus was on that single action – stopped me in my tracks.

It gave me an opportunity to actually look at him. Dark black hair atop a face that would be considered serious in business room, but on a street-corner appeared more like concentrated intent. Not overly tall, nor noticeably short, his clothes rested comfortable on his frame. Not an easy feat  – wearing a black sports jacket hanging over dark brown slacks on a mid-summer afternoon – but one he could carried off quite well.

I stood watching the cars rush past him at the intersection; it appeared to me that he wasn’t there waiting to cross but waiting on…what? I was so absorbed in studying him, that it took me a moment to realize he was looking back at me.

Too startled to be embarrassed, I just stared back at him. I lost him a moment later in the dizzying speed of the cars flashing across the intersection. I sighed, shaking the day-dream from my head.

I could have followed him further, but I followed my hunger instead. I knew well the food served at numerous street cafes, but I took my time in browsing through their culinary offerings, I was well on my way to forgetting the intriguing stranger, when I felt a hand lightly brush my shoulder. I turned from a café menu, to find myself face to face with the man I had followed.

“Did you drop this?” He asked, holding aloft a rose I recognized as the one I had held earlier.

“That….I….” I paused to pull my thought together, “Yes, I did.”

He smiled, "May I join you for lunch?”

Ten minutes later saw us sitting at a small round table in the courtyard of the café. Other then sharing names (he shared his last, I, my first) we had yet to establish any meaningful conversation. “So…Mr. Desmond. What brings you to the small town of Jacobs? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“Ah, yes.” He waved the young waitress over, glancing to her name-tag, “Malory. What a beautiful name.” The girl’s blush almost reached her eyes. “A cup of your strongest coffee please, for me. And for Josephine here…”

“Ice tea. No sugar, please.” I realized I was nervously tapping my fingers on the cool glass of the table and stilled my hand. Mr. Desmond had set the rose upon the glass surface of the table, and I distracted myself by rolling it over gently, feeling the smooth green stem between my fingers.

“I am here to meet some people. Three, in fact.” said Mr. Desmond.




“No…well, not exactly.’ He chuckled. “They’ve never really met me before, which would make the prospects of friendship rather difficult at the moment.”

I like to consider myself a rather sharp person, but I found myself confused, “I’m not sure I understand…”

“No, of course you don’t.” His words eased into the space my confusion had left. He raised his left hand, holding up three fingers, “Mrs. Lovell.” One finger down. “Angela Beckett,” The second finger folded in. “And Josephine.” The last finger went down. He spoke each name like he was sharing a secret with an intimate of his. I hardly knew the man, yet he acted with an assumed familiarly that left me more then a little uncomfortable. 

I gathered my wits, “But to what purpose do you want to meet…”

His long fingers lifted the rose from the table. “It’s what I do. Meeting people.” He gently draw one of the petals from the rose, resting it atop of finger like an offering.

A moment of  silence. “Why are you telling me this?”

Eyes the color of grey skies regarded me in silence. His finger tilted slightly and the petal slid clear of his finger, tumbling gracefully to rest atop my hand like an angel kiss.

“Because it is what you want.” I felt his eyes on my skin, as if the weight of his gaze was something physical, “Your capture will be the easiest, because it will be your own curiosity that drives you there.” He leaned forward, resting the rose on the mirrored surface between them. “You will be here tomorrow, and the day after, to hear each step of their seduction. Until we reach a point, the climax of the story, where you want to know,” the pause was a smile, small, controlled, “…how I take them. And you will know the price for the story.”

There was nothing left but silence for me. I was unable to speak while he carefully removed his wallet and placed several crisp bills on top of the table between the wine-glass and his untouched brandy. I wasn’t even able to watch him as he turned and left the café.

I did know the price. Worse. I feared I might be willing to pay for it.

I felt the first drop of rain.